so, it's like that
by sherllllllock
Summary: "You shaved your legs in the zombie apocalypse?" Daryl blurts, and then realises that must sound rather odd, even for him.


Carol is engrossed in the task of stitching up a wound on his arm, all of her focus on the row of delicate sutures, seemingly unaware of his gaze for once. Thee dull ache through his frame reminds him that he indeed cannot fly. She is tired, her hands not quite as steady as they would have been hours before. Before he asked this of her, brought to her attention just what it meant to matter to him.

"I want to wash out – we should wash your hair. Before you lie down." Daryl can't blame Carol for not wanting blood on the sofa, and tries to focus.

"Here, Daryl. Just – kneel down and I'll get this out of your hair and I can get you to bed, all right?" He leans over the edge of the tub with only a few muttering complaints. Carol takes the shower head and gently rinses out the blood before washing his hair with shampoo. She tests the water to make sure that it's warm, but Daryl can't stop himself from shivering.

Once she's washed away the blood she settles him onto the lid of the toilet before digging through a cabinet for fresh towels. The dark circles of her nipples show through her soaked cotton t-shirt, and she is too busy trying to cautiously dry his hair enough to apply a fresh bandage to care. It surprises him in some way, and Daryl supposes he's never given a thought to Carol having these obvious anatomical features. She is all strong and hard, usually covered with a rifle slung across her chest.

She wraps his clean hair in a towel and with her arm around him, helps him into their bedroom. Daryl perches on the edge of the bed as she strips from his body the remaining clothes. He shivers and Carol reassures him in a soft voice that it will only be a minute. Waiting is boring, a minute too bloody long, so he burrows into the bed, enveloped by the scent of clean cotton sheets.

"Oh," Carol says softly, not meeting his eyes before she sits on the edge of the bed. She holds out water and a mix of anonymous pills. There's a bitter narcotic among them, and probably an antibiotic. Carol suspects a fever, then. He takes them, wincing at the protest from his taped ribs when he tries to sit up. The glass clinks on the coaster on the nightstand and he lets his eyes flutter closed, but opens them to watch her when he feels her weight lift from the bed. She notices her suddenly translucent shirt and lets out a small squeak before digging into her backpack to pull out a new one, this time pale blue and sleeveless. She steps into the dark corner to change and Daryl squints, just making out the shadow of the swell of her breast in the dim light.

Daryl awakens several hours later. Carol is huddled beside him on the bed, knees drawn to her chest and a glass of wine in her hand. The glow of the bedside lamp favors her, softening the lines of her face and darkening her eyes. She notices his slight shifting in the bed and puts the glass down so she can lay her hand against his forehead.

"You don't seem feverish now. How's the pain?" Carol says softly. She doesn't need to whisper. Everyone else is already asleep.

"Fine," Daryl croaks out. He struggles to sit up and Carol helps, fluffing the pillows behind him.

She lifts her glass once more to sip from it before she picks up her penlight, checking his eyes.

Daryl's lips part without words appearing. It seems to occur to her that he might be sick and she glances around for a wastebasket. He stops her by grasping her arm, grounding himself with the smooth texture of her skin beneath his fingertips. Carol freezes, eyes wide, and something tightens in his gut. He needs distraction, badly, because without it he can't keep the memory of seeing her bruised body lying on the ground. He lifts his hand to cup her cheek, then lets it roll along the side of her neck, and down along her ribs. He's unaccustomed to touching live people like this, his skin flushes when he feels her lungs expand with a gulp of breath.

Carol swallows and warily turns to face him. Her fingers crush the sheets into a ball as she kisses his forehead, just at the edge of his hairline, the opposite side of the spot she had bandaged earlier that night. When he doesn't shrink away or yell at her, she kisses him again, at the juncture of temple and cheekbone. Without thinking, he reaches for Carol's wrist, but she takes it wrong.

"Sorry," she whispers, "I'm sorry-" before she starts to pull away from him. He tightens his hold on her wrist, keeping her from sliding off the bed.

"I want to" Daryl says, trying to make it into a question but the end result sounds more like confusion. For some reason that seems to put Carol more at ease (of course, the playing field seems more even if he is out of his depth, obvious). She brings up the hand he isn't clutching in a trembling grip to stroke her fingers along the side of his face, thumb brushing over the sandpaper stubble of his beard.

"Daryl," she says, her voice suffused with warmth and tenderness, and how could she do that to just his name? The sound carves out an empty ache in his chest that has nothing to do with cracked ribs or strained muscles. He leans into her hand, ever so slightly, and the small gesture instills enough hope for her to decide. She shifts closer until her thigh is alongside his, and a little half-smile forms at the edge of her lips.

She leans in to kiss him, perhaps a little clumsily but so softly. He doesn't respond at first, just taking in the data, the shape of her lips, how her hair glistens in the low light, the gentle pressure of her thumb still stroking his skin.

Carol pulls away, just looking at him, and he can see nervousness well up in her, the fear that she's done something wrong, unethical even. She did give him a rather unusual medley of drugs today, after all. Daryl lays his hand at the back of her neck to draw her back to him, swallowing down the surprise that he'd like her to kiss him again. He can taste the wine in her mouth as she deepens the kiss, her tongue pressing against his own. Carol runs her hand along his chest, her fingers skimming the edge of his bandages as she traces his sternum, his ribs. He doesn't want her to stop kissing him. He doesn't want her to speak.

As if she knows this, Carol stays quiet, her mouth occupied by his jaw and throat. The skin beneath her shirt feels hot to the touch, and a flush of goose pimples rises along her arm as she peels the shirt away, her hair crackling slightly with static electricity. He expected her to be shy, but perhaps the wine is chipping away at her inhibitions. She slips beneath the sheets before she stretches along his side and Daryl finds himself briefly stunned by the long warm swath of her skin pressed against his own (there's honey and jasmine in her scent, she must have showered while he was sleeping). He traces the line of her arm until he can study the muscles of her back, and catches himself smiling faintly when he feels her pulse beneath his lips.

"Daryl," Carol whispers again, and he still doesn't know why she is lowering her voice when they're alone, but the pleasure in her tone wraps around him like a veil. He's not quite the virgin he pegged himself as, but Carol cares for him without the least hint of artifice, and that is entirely new.

Then Carol's hand drifts along his abdomen, fingertips just lightly brushing over coarse pubic hair until she finds what she's seeking. He gasps sharply as her hand circles his cock, and somehow it's the shift from point A to Point B that he hadn't quite made until that moment.

"Shhh. S'okay," Carol murmurs against his ear. She rests her hand on his hip, her touch still firm but gentle. "I can stop. Do you want me to stop? Need me to? Daryl?"

He blinks at her, trying to get his brain to respond coherently. Her eyes are searching his face for clues and he is sure that if he laid his hand above her heart he would feel it pounding.

"No. Carol," he says, noticing how low his voice is, and that indeed, it's quieter, intimate and just for her. Her whole chest moves as she takes in her next breath; she was tense again, fearful that he would push her away. Then he realizes that he can lay his hand across her heart, feel the rabbit-like beat go mad beneath his fingertips. He slides his hand down to palm the little swell of her breast and notices how her eyelids flutter when he flicks his thumb across the hard nub of her nipple. Is she so responsive for everyone, he wonders, or is this also just for him? He levers her up with his hands cupping her arse, so quickly that she scrabbles for the headboard behind him for balance.

Daryl flicks his tongue over her nipple and watches the skin pucker and tighten as he blows cool air over it. He narrows his focus, trying to observe her reactions instead of the muted echo of pain in his body. His fingers trail the underside of her breasts, and the muscles and tendons of her arms tense above him as her grip on the headboard tightens. Daryl rather likes the idea that Carol would cling out of desperation, of needing her hands to be somewhere solid.

His fingers catch in the waistband of her pajamas and he should probably ask before he slides them down over her bum, although the way she wriggles to help him along seems like a perfectly good answer. Carol is quite petite and he suspects this is the fleshiest part of her, when he cups each cheek in his palms she groans and kicks the rest of her clothes out of her way.

With the rest of her in easy reach, Daryl tests out what she likes, noting how she arches into his touch when he cups her breast and jerks away, ticklish, when his fingers dance lightly below her navel. He slips a hand between her thighs, and he watches her mouth fall open as he strokes her, circling the swollen pearl of her clit. Her muscles contract tightly around his long fingers as he dips them inside her. He doesn't particularly like the slick feeling on his fingers, something about it seems distasteful and messy, despite the obvious efficiency. He likes feedback, though, and Carol grants it with sighs and bitten lips. She kisses his neck and a soft breathy moan floats to his ear, triggering a feeling of electricity down his spine. He's tempted to draw this to completion, especially when her thighs start to tremble, but Carol shifts, brushing his fingers aside and straddling his hips with more fluidity of movement than he expected her to possess. He hisses as her hand strays too close to his cracked ribs as she finds her balance.

Carol strokes his cock again, a little more vigorously, and then with a rather clever shimmy of her hips he's sheathed inside of her. Daryl digs his fingers into her waist with a gasp, because the tight, wet heat surrounding him is almost overwhelming.

"Need a moment," Daryl manages to say, and Carol nods, her hands trembling slightly on his chest. He watches her breathe again, feeling like time has briefly suspended its march forward. He runs his hand over her thighs, and his brain stirs, noting the smoothness of her skin.

"You shaved your legs in the zombie apocalypse?" Daryl blurts, and then realizes that must sound rather odd, even for him. Carol claps her hand over her mouth and giggles, and the sound is far more pleasant than he might have expected, as is the tightening of her pelvic muscles around his cock as the laughter passes through her body.

When he begins to lightly caress her skin, fingers brushing beneath her breasts, Carol moves slowly and carefully, bending to kiss him and nuzzle his cheek with surprising tenderness. He tests out exactly how much he can move his hips before his ribs ache, and the answer is regrettably small, although Carol doesn't seem to mind. Her thighs are stronger than they look, firm muscle beneath soft flesh, and he grips onto them as a shudder of pleasure passes through him. She leans over him, gently stroking his chest, but also seems to know he needs breathing room. He doesn't think of sex like this, soothing and giving and Carol would give until she had nothing left, he can tell. The idea makes him want to wrap his arms around her, to protect her because she is precious and rare, but the fact is that he's always has been the trap set out for her, and he doesn't know how he could ever change that.

Carol tugs his hand back to where he stroked her before, where he can feel her stretched around his cock as she slowly circles her hips and shivers. Her body jerks slightly as he sweeps his thumb across her clit, and he settles his hand into the crease of her thigh and hip to do just that. She isn't particularly vocal, which he appreciates, just panting softly in rhythm with the wet sound of their bodies meeting.

Daryl knows where this should lead, but the cocktail of painkillers and exhaustion makes his body less than inclined to cooperate. Carol notices him going soft and kisses him once more, before letting him slip out and tumbling clumsily to the bed beside him. She bites her lip shyly, not quite looking at him as she pulls the covers up over both of them.

"You should get back to sleep," Carol says quickly, and switches off the light. Daryl frowns in the dark, feeling like he should apologize, although at the same time he's certain he hasn't done anything wrong. Luckily Carol is willing to ignore the fact that he hasn't actually spoken a word.

"It's fine, you know. I don't always – you know, anyway. With another person. Especially not the first time – not – not that I'm saying there has to be a second time," she adds hastily.

"Carol," he says with a faint hint of warning, because he really needs her to stop rambling, but then dread curls in his belly at the thought that she might slip away from him, contract back into that smaller, quieter version of herself. Awkwardly, he tries to slide his arm beneath her shoulders to make her turn towards him, to keep her close. Carol knows, of course. She kisses his shoulder and tries to nestle against him without disturbing his injuries, her thin hand resting over his heart. The sensation is at once foreign and pleasant, but then he has never been averse to touch so much as extremely selective about who is allowed close enough to do so.

"I don't think I've ever been so tired, Carol," he mutters, and Carol sweeps her fingers affectionately along his sternum in an unconscious Y-incision.

"Mmmm. Well, you know, you did have a bit of a day," she adds, and the understatement nearly makes him smile. The ghosts of his impossible day hover at the periphery of Daryl's mind, but the soft rhythm of her breath across his collarbone lets him drift off again with only a fleeting thought of what his life might be like tomorrow, with the soft weight of Carol's hand on his chest as his lone remaining anchor.


End file.
